Choices
by roamingwyoming
Summary: Regret runs deep in the past of two Ionians, yet the pain of their loss still smolders in the abyss of their hearts.


"Aah. The traitor."

Yasuo bristled as the warped voice reached his ears, corruption-laced decibels ricocheting off the stone walls of the Institute as he wandered its cold halls. A hand slowly reached down for the sword at his hip, fine hair on the backs of his knuckles rising in trepidation, starting a pattern that trailed up his wrists and forearms. He edgily turned to face the man behind him.

"You're one to talk," he snorted, free hand coming up to scratch at the scar across his nose. The swordsman tensed but held his ground as his fellow Ionian began to pace towards him.

Varus stopped mere inches from the other man. He cocked his head to one side, otherwordly eyes betraying no sense of emotion. "Am I? I have sacrificed more for my _nation_," the archer spat, venomous anger seeping through his stoic facade, "than you can even begin to ima-" The metallic ring of a sword being unsheathed stopped his words short, sharp tip resting just under his chin as he narrowed his eyes at the other man.

Trembling with a fine, constrained fury, Yasuo stared firmly into the other's countenance. "Do _not_ talk to me about sacrifice, _demon_. I know well enough of your past, your loss. And all of Ionia knows of your failure to your duty in the aftermath."

"Just as all of Ionia knows of your bloodlust, your betrayal of one of the esteemed Elders, the slaughter of your own _brother_-"

"I did _not_ kill him!" Varus was once again cut off as the piercing metal slashed down towards his throat, Yasuo's gritty shout reverberating in his ears as he leaped back to avoid the ringing blade. Pale lips drew back in slow grin, violet tendrils of corruption snaking down one inky forearm as the frame of a bow began to take shape.

"But who, traitor? The Elder you swore to protect? Profess your innocence to that crime all you want. But what about... Yone?" The brandished grin began to turn feral, corners pulling down in a wicked snarl at the swordsman's reaction.

Blade held tight with two trembling fists, Yasuo screwed his eyes shut at the other's words, mouth twisting in a grimace. He forced a breath in through his nose, head beginning to veer back and forth in denial of his weighted past. "Don't." A choked response. "Do _not _speak his na-"

"_Your own family!_" The tainted shout rang painfully about the enclosed corridor. "Your only brother, and you cut him down with your own blade! You know _nothing_ of pain, _nothing of loss_, until those you truly love have been ripped from you under no control of your own." Varus' ivory chest heaved once, twice with the effort of his brief outburst, dark corruption inching up his torso as he fought to regain control over his anger. He managed to bite out one last growling retort at the wanderer. "You had a choice."

Yasuo merely stared. His trembling had reduced to a fine twitch running up the side of his throat every few seconds, sheen of sweat across his jugular matching the wetness in his anguished gaze. He needed no reminders of the mistakes he had made, the life he had held dearest to his heart taken by his own hands. Blinking away his sorrow, he straightened his back, lowering his sword as he looked on his fellow Ionian with a growing sense of pity. "So did you."

The archer froze. Sheathing his weapon, Yasuo turned his back on the other, wiping his knuckles across his moist eyes as he began his trek back down the hallway. A bitter disappointment – at his own faults, at the shortcomings of his nation, Ionia's failings towards its own people – began to well deep within his chest, and he fished a small flask of Zaunite whiskey out of his pocket, unscrewing the cap and drawing a long swig to take some of the edge off the growing pain in his heart. Nearing the junction of the adjoining passageway, Yasuo slowed for a moment, glancing over his shoulder at the now-kneeling form of the Arrow of Retribution. The hairs at the back of his neck began to prick up a mere moment before the broken wail hit his ears, a dark, drawn-out howling washing over the cracked stone as it rose in pitch, sounding off the desperation of a man with nothing to lose.

Shuddering at the overlying warp the other man's vocal cords carried, Yasuo turned one final time, continuing to wander the dim halls of the Institute as tendrils of pain-fed corruption washed over the corridor in his wake.


End file.
